


Arduus ad Solem

by obstinatrix



Series: The Better Part of Valour [1]
Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2019-09-01 17:57:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16770067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinatrix/pseuds/obstinatrix
Summary: Christmas, 2016. Hugh and Tom are invited to Oxford to open the annual Christmas Charity Sale at their old prep school. They complain about the lack of proper newsagent facilities in North Oxford, reminisce over local beer, and then have ill-advised hotel room sex, obviously.Arduus ad Solem is The Dragon School's motto. Sorry, Dragon School.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> When I wrote this I thought David Cameron would still be PM at Christmas. Oh my lord.
> 
> I have posted this before, got rid of it, and now it's back. Don't ask.

"This is my third time at this," Hugh said, turning the Junior Boys' Swimming Cup in one hand to inspect the back as if for new scratches. Then he looked up, his eyes arrestingly blue. Tom found he hadn't become used to it, even after all these months. "You?"

"Oh, uh." Tom fought the urge to scratch nervously at the back of his neck. The second time he'd ever met Hugh Laurie, Hugh had caught him by the wrist and smiled and said, "That's your nervous tic, is it?" and so now Tom could never do it again and had to simply stand there with his hands flapping uselessly in the air like a prat. "They asked me in...2012, I think?" Definitely 2012, but he didn't want to say that and sound like he still felt honoured to have been invited (although he did).

"We must be more exciting as a pair," Hugh suggested airily, setting the cup down and crossing his arms over his chest. "At least they don't want us to give prizes." An affected shudder. "Can't abide giving prizes."

"Oh, they go straight to the top for prize givings," Tom said, smiling at the memory. The Christmas Charity Sale was a long, long running tradition at the Dragon School, usually opened in Tom's time by some bloke the mums tittered over and the pupils didn't recognise. Presentation Evening was another matter. "They'll get back to you when you've become Prime Minister."

"Give it five years, then."

Later, when Hugh was speaking to the crowd, Tom watched him sidelong and tried his best to look as if he wasn't. The strange thing about Hugh was that he was so _very much himself_ , the self Tom had grown up watching on VHS tapes gone stretched and dull with use, all the little tics and mannerisms of his face so inimitable and familiar. Meeting Hugh for the first time had felt like being reintroduced to a favourite uncle who'd recently developed dementia: Tom tried very hard to behave as if they'd never met, but it had felt like a farce. There was a framed, signed picture of Hugh in the library in this very building that had been here since at least 1992. Tom had walked past it every day for the better part of three years.

Hugh was, very definitely, the kind of Old Dragon who got asked back to open the Christmas Sale. He made Tom feel like something of a fraud, or like a prep school boy himself again. It wasn't Hugh's fault. It just...was.

They slipped out by the back gate while the parents were still milling around the stalls, hoping to avoid getting caught up in a throng of autograph-seekers. Hugh pushed his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and then cursed.

"Fuck. I'm dying for a fag. I hope you didn't succeed in giving it up, Hiddleston."

Tom laughed. "How did you know?" He was already fumbling.

"Thank God. Fucking Woodstock Road. Nary a newsagent for miles. Not even a bloody Spar. It's like the road to hell." He took the proffered cigarette from Tom and leaned in to accept the light, cupping his hand around Tom's to shield the flame.

"We used to live just down there," Tom said, pointing to the far side of the road, where the first of many leafy streets, full of identical redbrick semis, wound down towards Jericho.

"Did you?" Hugh looked. "So did Lawrence of Arabia. When he was just 'Lawrence in a shed in the garden, desperate to avoid his mum. There's a blue plaque."

"I know." Smiling. He and his sisters had found that, one autumn afternoon shortly after they'd moved to Oxford. The Lawrence house had been a street and a half away from theirs, the blue plaque the only thing to mark it out from any of the others in the row. The front garden had been full of rusting car parts.

"Not one of our lot, though." Now he was doing a Stuffy Old Man voice. Hugh really did pick up and drop voices just like that, in conversation. "Who grows up in Oxford and then doesn't apply to Cambridge like the rest of us? No self respect."

Somewhere along the way, they had stopped walking. Hugh was scanning the opposite side of the street vaguely, face scrunched. Tom peered over also, but he hadn't got his glasses on and didn't want to admit he could barely make out anything beyond the nearside pavement with any degree of clarity.

"Are you going back to London?" Hugh said abruptly, taking Tom by surprise as he whirled around to face him again. "Only I've just decided I can't be arsed. It's cold and it's a bloody long walk to the train station and I'm feeling nostalgic." He looked at his watch, and then said, as if Tom had responded already, "Come to the pub."

They went to the pub. Tom was awful at saying no to people at the best of times; Hugh had a way of speaking that made it actually impossible for Tom not to just do exactly what he said. It was slightly troubling, but on the other hand, it wasn't as if Tom had anything in London he needed to get back for, and if there were no newsagents on this godforsaken road, there were certainly pubs.

The first one they found had been, Hugh declared, "completely rebuilt from the ground up" since he'd last drunk in there, underage, in school summer holidays; Tom had no memory of it at all, and said so.

"It's much improved," Hugh elaborated. "It used to be an absolute shithole."

He ordered for them, catching the barman's attention with a practised motion of one long-fingered hand. The other one sat casually between Tom's shoulder blades, which was making Tom feel strange in unexpected places, like the pit of his stomach and the soles of his feet. Hugh's skin had that indefinable _cold_ smell that came inside with a person in winter, but his hand was warm.

They found a smallish table in a warm back corner, and Tom had to admit that Hugh's choice of beer was good, as far as he could tell. He was hardly a connoisseur, but Hugh made appreciative noises and Hugh was paying, so that was that.

"Never been asked back to Eton, mind," Hugh observed. "You really do have to be the Prime Minister to give the prizes there, I suppose."

"The less said about _him_ , the better," Tom said, pulling a face.

"Ham-faced buffoon gives us all a bad name," Hugh concurred.

Tom's phone buzzed. Chiwetel, just saying hello. Hugh leaned over to look as Tom tapped out a quick response.

"God, yes, I forgot you knew him. Great actor. Have you made a film together?"

"Not yet," Tom said, still typing, "but I've known him for years. I was in his _Othello_."

"Oh, who were you -- Desdemona?" The tone was sneering but the grin was soft, and Tom felt his chest tug. Fucking -- Christ. Fuck. He'd thought he was over this but it kept coming back, the strange twisted feeling Hugh dredged up in him. It was like a combination of the hero worship you felt for a long-revered actor and that other, special, particular kind you only got at school, when an older boy asked for a favour and then congratulated you on a job well done. Tom squirmed on his chair, trying not to flush and aware that he was failing.

"Hardly," Tom muttered. "Cassio."

"Shame," Hugh said, airily. "Did you play girls' parts at Eton?"

If fucking only he could truthfully say no, or convincingly lie. "Somebody has to," he said. The urge to touch the back of his neck intensified. He tried to make up for it with a disarming laugh, but it sort of sounded as if he were in pain.

"Naturally," Hugh said, nodding. "The Bard as written, up at that place, eh? I didn't act till I went up to Cambridge, but I remember the fights over casting. I suppose you got stuck a lot with the female lead, what with --" he indicated vaguely with his pint glass -- "blond, little mouth, usually the best they can manage. Nobody wants a lantern-jawed Juliet."

Fuck. Fuck! He'd only had one beer, but he already felt bloody unusual. If Hugh was going to keep this up, Tom might have to excuse himself to the bathroom just to scream _fuck!_ giddily out of a window to prevent himself doing it in the bar. He wasn't even entirely sure what he was feeling. The feeling was simply a high-pitched, helpless yell of _fuck_.

"I got too tall by the time I was in the sixth form," Tom said. His voice came out unexpectedly even, which was a small mercy. Hugh laughed.

"Christ, it's a strange world, isn't it, when you think about it? What anachronisms we are."

"I liked it," Tom said truthfully. "I mean, I know it's strange, and only a tiny percentage of people grow up that way, these days. But people keep asking me about it as if they think I must have been warped for life by the experience." He shrugged. "I liked boarding school."

"I suppose you had an easier time of it than we did," Hugh said. "Rules and things. In our day, the older boys were still a law unto themselves. Technically you didn't get assigned a kid to fag for you or anything, by the time I went, but it was still unofficially The Way of Things."

"Really?" Tom's fingers had come to light, blessedly, upon the label on the beer bottle. Excellent. He felt better already with something to tug at. The back of his neck felt hot.

"Oh, yes. Mostly it was just fetching people's shoes, but if a chap on the rugger team asked you to do something, you did it." The corner of Hugh's mouth pulled up, languidly amused. "One could buy _so much contraband_ with sexual favours."

Tom choked on a sip, then breathed in hard and only succeeded in making it worse. Hugh thumped him manfully on the back and Tom waved a hand at him vaguely, _I'm all right_ , only he wasn't, of course. He knew Hugh was just reminiscing, but the backs of Tom's ears were so hot they felt about to catch fire and he was half-hard under the table like a pervert.

When he could breathe again, Tom opened his mouth intending to say _perhaps we should get going_ , but inexplicably what came out was " _That_ hasn't changed," and Hugh threw him an approving look that warmed Tom, embarrassingly, to his core.

They stayed until after ten. The conversation wandered onto other topics; Hugh ordered them food without asking Tom what he wanted and they talked about LA and London and being caught between, and Tom did, eventually, feel himself relaxing. But the unspoken _fuck_ was still there, somewhere at the base of his skull, needling. Hugh's hands were big around his pint glass and his knee brushed Tom's from time to time beneath the table. Tom tried to put it out of his mind, but he kept hearing Hugh's voice saying _sexual favours_ , unfamiliar words in that long-familiar voice.

Eton didn't _make_ queers: it just turned amateurs into professionals. Tom flushed to himself, pleased with the sentiment, crossed his legs under the table and remembered what they said at school, about an Eton College blowjob being peerless. He hadn't yet come across any evidence to the contrary.

Hugh had booked a room at the Randolph. On his phone, when Tom had gone for a piss, apparently. They ambled into the centre of town together, cheeks hot in the coolness of the evening, and Tom wondered if he was really meant to go and get the train now or if -- _if._

He wished Hugh would say something. If Tom were to misstep, he'd never live it down.

He was just about to turn down Beaumont Street (despairing) when Hugh touched his wrist and said, _sotto voce_ , "Look, did you want to come up? If you're repulsed at the affront to your honour, then please do disregard and my apologies, but --"

"No!" Tom blurted, and then blushed hotly at his own eagerness. "I mean, that is. Yes."

Hugh smiled, for the first time his fullest smile, bright beneath the street lamp. "Thank God for that. I thought I was going to have to issue an engraved invitation for a minute, there."

"You were hardly obvious," Tom protested, in a moment of daring, and Hugh tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially.

"Obvious enough, old man. I practically waved the club badge in your face." He reached up and touched Tom's scarf, just for a second, under the pretence of tugging it straight. "Let me check in. I'll send you a text with the room number."

Tom hung around by the side entrance, feeling like a spare part and hoping he didn't look like one. When the message came through ("201, bring A game, regards HL") he actually laughed aloud in relief and had to clamp a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound. Thank goodness it was too cold and too dreary for anyone to spare more than a passing glance for strangers on the street: nobody had recognised them all evening. The barman, in fact, had thought they were father and son, a fact that made Tom shiver in a way that probably meant he had issues, considering.

Hugh opened the door of room 201 in shirtsleeves, his tie undone, glass of minibar whisky ready in hand. He looked as if he'd been schooling his face just in case Tom was somebody else, and Tom bit his lip, couldn't resist -- "Good evening, sir. I'm the night manager."

Hugh snorted. "Don't I fucking know it, you smarmy virile role-stealing git." He glanced up and down the corridor once and then he seized Tom by the lapels of his overcoat and tugged. "Get in here."

Tom's amusement shifted instantly into something else that had him swallowing hard. "Yes, sir."

Hugh's eyes flashed darkly. "Damn right." He slammed the door and latched it in one deft movement and then flattened his palm against Tom's shoulder, holding him there against it. They were almost exactly of a height, and Hugh's gaze dipped immediately and obviously to Tom's mouth until Tom felt himself lifting his chin involuntarily, seeking. "You a kisser, Hiddleston, or is it strictly old school ties?"

Tom caught a weak sound on its way out of his throat, before it could actually turn into a moan, but Hugh zeroed in on it all the same, licked his lips. He leaned in, the whisky good and warm on his breath, and nosed at Tom's cheekbone, then his ear.

"Please," Tom said, helplessly, and Hugh laughed, not unkindly. He pulled back, eyes raking swiftly over Tom's face as if assessing him before one big hand slid into Tom's hair, cupping the back of his skull. Tom shivered, made himself meet Hugh's eyes, and parted his lips in the way he knew men always seemed to go mad for. The smaller and pinker the mouth, apparently, the more desperate everyone was to fuck it.

"Good," Hugh said, his voice lower now, a rumble in his chest. "Great. Come here."

Hugh kissed like a straight bloke who'd been to public school. There were no two ways about it: it was a certain kind of kiss, hands firm and possessive, manhandling; gentle, as if more used to touching women, but without the edge of uncertain, tremulous self-loathing you got from a closet case or a newly fledged bisexual. It was achingly familiar, and Tom hadn't known until this moment how much he'd missed it. Hugh crowded him against the door, bit at his mouth and then tongued at the sore place, and Tom groaned into it, met Hugh's tongue with his and felt his cock pulse when Hugh responded. It was good; it was _fucking_ good, and if Tom hadn't been uncomfortably warm in his overcoat and scarf, he might have let it go on indefinitely, enjoying the sensation of being directed this way. As it was --

"Hang on --" His hands went to his neck, and Hugh, catching on, obligingly unpopped the buttons on the stupid bloody coat while Tom tossed the scarf aside and panted for breath.

"Do you want a drink while there's an interlude?" Hugh asked him, leaning in to take a kiss casually off Tom's mouth while he tugged at the hem of Tom's sweater.

"No, I --" The sweater went up over his head and Tom waited a moment till Hugh had thrown it aside, then smiled at him, thoroughly pleased now, blood thrilling. "I'm fine. Rather just --"

"What?" Apparently Tom's shirt was also going. Tom would have protested, but he found he didn't want to. This was easy, now that they'd got to it, easy and uncomplicated, and then Hugh's mouth was on his throat and he said half-wonderingly, "your fucking _neck_ , God," before reiterating, "You'd rather just what?"

Tom debated half a second whether he dared. _Get on with it_ was the safe option. He closed his eyes and smiled and said, "Suck your cock," the _ck_ clicking wetly in the back of his throat, and was glad he'd been brave when Hugh groaned into the hollow of his throat, leaning heavily into him.

"Jesus Christ. You shameless tart." Hugh drew in a shaky breath, as if steeling himself, and then stepped back. He palmed Tom's neck, gently at first, and then all at once his grip firmed and he was pushing, unmistakably, a downward coaxing pressure. "Go on, then."

Tom's breath caught. It had taken him everything he had to push those words out, _suck your cock_ , though he'd known since the moment Hugh opened the door that it was what he wanted, the thick heavy pressure of Hugh's dick in his mouth and Hugh's big hand in his hair, directing his motions. But somehow he hadn't expected this: to be pushed to his knees by the door, still in his open shirt and suit trousers and Hugh entirely clothed, whisky tumbler in his left hand. Doing it like this was, was _dirty_. It was sordid and cheap and suddenly Tom wanted, with a fierce and clear intensity, to be debased.

He went to his knees in one motion, collapsing like a suit of clothes fallen from a peg, and pressed his face at once against the swell of Hugh's cock in his trousers, nuzzling at him, breathing in the smell of him. Hugh drew in a breath sharply, and Tom's blood spiked, _yes good yes_. When Hugh's hand came to rest on his shoulder, hesitant, Tom took it by the wrist and guided it to his hair, curled Hugh's fingers into a fist.

"Tell me," he said, looking up under his lashes, and mouthed at the shaft of Hugh's cock through the cloth.

"Christ." Hugh's voice was tight, but he clenched his fingers as instructed, and Tom felt the prickle of it all across his scalp, a million tiny pinpricks of pain making him thrill to the soles of his feet. He was straining in his pants now, all at once fully, fiercely hard. It had been a while since he'd done this, had an older man fuck his face, use him. _Fuck_ , he wanted it.

"Please," Tom said, nuzzling at Hugh, cupping the shaft in one hand and pressing it to his cheek, seeking. He went for the button and zip and felt his pulse surge up in his throat at the familiar sound, Pavlovian: the zipper burring down to let Hugh's cock spring free and nudge against his jaw. "Tell me what you, what I --" he cut himself off, now that he had Hugh's pants out of the way and his blissfully proportionate cock leaking precome through the cotton of his boxers, the smell making Tom's mouth water. He leaned in, closed his eyes, tonguing the slit through the cloth.

"You're a filthy little cliche, you know that?" Hugh's voice was breathless, Tom was gratified to hear. He shivered, tonguing slowly, and waited for more. "This is what you like, is it? Being told what to do?"

"Sometimes," Tom said truthfully, and looked up again. Hugh's eyes caught his and he felt, suddenly, _powerful_ as he tongued at him again, deliberately, holding that blue gaze.

"Fuck." That was it, the snap. The tenor of Hugh's grip in Tom's hair changed; he yanked at it, and Tom cried out, _godyesgod_. "All right, if that's what you want, you'll get it, boy. Take my bloody cock out, do it." Another tug, not messing around this time. "And get it in your pretty little mouth."

Something lurched in Tom like a rush of blood to the head. All at once he was dizzy, gasping; his fingers were numb as he struggled to obey, but _god_ , he wanted to. Hugh's grip on his hair was punishing and Tom pulled at it, just to feel the resistance, as he yanked down Hugh's boxers, nuzzling at the bare, hot-silk shaft of him and feeling the sticky-slick kiss of the head against his cheekbone. It smelled so good, raw and heavy, and Tom didn't need any more encouragement to take it in his mouth, pushing the tip of his tongue into the foreskin as he sealed his mouth around the crown.

"Oh, fuck." Hugh's voice was thready now, the commanding tone he'd adopted earlier bleeding away. This was praise, and Tom liked this, too; let himself sink into it as he closed his eyes and dipped lower, trying to get as much of Hugh into his mouth as he could, taking him into his throat. Hugh was big, as befitted a man his size, and Tom's mouth was regrettably small, but he knew he'd done well when Hugh's hand descended, trembling, to touch the stretched corner of Tom's lips, as if amazed.

"You make a habit of this, don't you, I can tell." One long thumb smoothed across the hollow of Tom's cheek, and Tom groaned, obligingly rolling Hugh's cock in his mouth until the head shoved obscenely against Hugh's hand, nudged against the inside of Tom's cheek. Hugh hissed, rubbed his thumb there, and Tom groaned again, encouragement, before he pulled back wetly until only the head remained between his lips.

He let it sit there a moment, waiting for the tug in his hair that meant Hugh had had enough of this, the teasing. Whenever he got going with a dick in his mouth, Tom was amazed all over again by how much he loved it, how fucking good at it he was; how hot it got him when the tiniest flick of tongue over the wet head of a dick could make a guy shiver all over. He curled his tongue and Hugh hissed, tugging. "Tom…"

Tom breathed. Hugh's grip in his hair was firm, but there was give there, and Tom leaned into it, pulling back and groaning at the ache of it. "Tell me." He kissed the wet tip, just barely, and Hugh jerked against him, spilling precome. "Ask me. _Make_ me, pl--"

"Suck my _fucking_ cock, then." Now the slack in the grip was gone. Hugh's voice was shattered and he was pulling for real, hauling Tom forward until his mouth was full, crammed with it, so deep and sudden Tom could hardly breathe. "Go on, you nasty little slut; suck it."

Tom recognised this moment: the thick pressure of Hugh's dick shoved into his throat, stopping his breath, making his eyes tear up; the moment Tom stopped sucking Hugh's cock and Hugh began fucking Tom's face. Tom was on the edge of choking, Hugh's other hand descending to cup his head, pull him back just long enough to draw a breath and then ramming home again. Tom was shivering, the lack of air making his head buzz and his cock pound. He could feel the mess of spit and precome drooling from the corners of his mouth as Hugh began to fuck him faster, grinding against his tongue. Hugh was gasping now, cut off little grunts. Tom had ceased to be a person, become just a thing to be fucked, the wet clutch of his throat and his hot little mouth. His head spun, his back arching. Fuck, it was amazing.

"That's it," Hugh was saying, hands warm and firm at the base of Tom's skull, hips snapping forward till the pan of his pelvis all but met Tom's lips, over and over. Tom groaned, his vision blurring; Hugh was moving faster, thighs trembling, and Tom could feel himself hurtling towards that precipice with him, aching for it. He let himself make the sounds that rose up in his throat, head lolling, and caught his breath when Hugh's grip on his jaw steeled, holding him steady for just -- another -- thrust. With a monumental effort, Tom pressed the flat of his tongue up against the underside of Hugh's cock as he sheathed himself again, and fuck -- there it was --

"Jesus _Christ_." The fist in his hair pulled taut a final time, and then went loose, and Tom fell back with the impetus as the grip broke, reeling against the door. He was gasping for breath, chest heaving. Hugh's cock had been sheathed so deep in Tom's throat when he came, Tom couldn't even taste it, but when he let his head fall forward there came gobs of it spooling over his tongue and Tom shivered, drinking in the bitterness. Above him, Hugh was unsteady too. Tom was vaguely aware of the tall, broad shape of him shifting around, until there was a firm hand around his upper arm, gentle now, and then another in his hair.

"Tom?"

"Mmm." Tom tipped his head back, eyes heavy-lidded and dreamy. He recognised the tone in Hugh's voice, concern, and tried to smile for him, trying to make him see how very much he didn't have a problem with what had just happened. His mouth felt swollen, and when he traced the tip of his tongue across his lower lip, it was sensitised enough to make him shiver. "Was that all right?"

"Fucking hell." Both hands on his arms, now. Tom let himself be picked up, coming back to himself slowly as Hugh manhandled him across the room and onto the bed. The pulse of his arousal was sluggish, diffuse, pounding through him everywhere. Not dissipated, but intensified to a point where his cock couldn't contain it; it had hold of him all over. Vaguely, he wished he'd pulled away earlier, so Hugh could fuck him, but…

"You always so full-on?" Hugh was clambering onto the bed beside him. Tom shook his head as if to clear it, feeling the shape of reality return now he had enough oxygen in his lungs. Hugh was braced over him on one arm, still flushed and a little breathless; the mattress bounced about as he moved, in a way that felt vaguely and inexplicably pleasing. Tom smiled, bit his lip and reached up to take hold of Hugh's collar.

"When I get the chance." He pulled; Hugh went with it easily, and this time the kiss was even better, Hugh's mouth soft on Tom's and dragging deliciously against his swollen lips. Tom lifted his chin, letting Hugh push deeper, tonguing Tom's mouth open until their jaws went wide against each other, the kiss wet and dirty. When Hugh pulled back, Tom was panting, hips lifting helplessly against nothing, and Hugh flicked his eyes down and grinned.

"I suppose you'll want that seeing to?"

Tom laughed, throwing his head back. The dry tone of Hugh's voice struck him as immoderately funny, for some reason, and he wriggled on the bed, the starchy fabric of his suit trousers rubbing pleasantly against his stiff cock. "Please don't feel obligated, if you've grown out of your phase. I can see to it myself."

"Oh no, you don't." Hugh went instantly for his flies, as Tom had mostly expected, and he couldn't help laughing as trousers and boxers were yanked off him, Hugh palming at his hipbones and the flat of his stomach, little appreciative touches as he worked. Tom tugged at his shirt, feeling silly lying there in half a shirt and no bottoms, and Hugh helped him off with that, too, and then flattened a hand in the middle of Tom's chest and held him there, mapping him out with his eyes. The look on Hugh's face was openly admiring, and Tom felt himself preening a little, despite himself, his cock twitching under the scrutiny.

"You're very…"

"What?"

"Like a pristine English rose who's been paraded around the world under a parasol and come home just as white as ever."

"Oh, fuck you!" Tom bashed him with a pillow for that, chest still hitching with laughter, and Hugh ducked the blow, then lurched up and bit at the hollow of Tom's throat, thumbed at his nipple until Tom _mmm-ed_ and melted under the touch, hips lifting off the bed. God, there really was nothing quite like this, messing about with another bloke who'd had your very particular strange experience, knew what was good and what was unnecessary, what mattered and what didn't. When Hugh's big hand settled over the spine of Tom's cock, it was firm and sure and Tom arched up into it, shivering.

"I nearly pulled off," Tom murmured, "so you could…" He blushed: there were limits to what could be put into words, after all. He let his thighs fall open instead, and thoroughly enjoyed the way Hugh's eyes widened, his exploratory hand sliding down from Tom's cock to touch him lower, cupping the swell of his balls.

"Warn a chap, Hiddleston," Hugh said, sounding strained, "before you say things like that." For once, he sounded almost taken aback, but he found Tom's arsehole easy enough with two fingers and pressed there without hesitation, circling until Tom felt the muscle flutter. "Like that as well, do you?"

"Yes…" Hugh's mouth was on his throat again, then nudging at his nipple. Between that and the staccato rhythm he was now tapping out against Tom's hole, it was becoming difficult to make words. Tom bit his lip, trying to rut up against Hugh's thigh, his still-clothed stomach; anything.

"Well, I fear you'll not get this old man up again tonight, even for you," Hugh said, matter of factly, his tone a complete counterpoint to the steady careful motion of his fingertips, the occasional graze of teeth or lips across Tom's nipple. "And we haven't anything to do it with anyway, but if the offer's there --"

"Mmmm, next time," Tom agreed breathlessly, tugging at Hugh's shirt with both hands. "Only I've got to, please, can we just --"

He didn't know what he was asking for, really, other than _something_ , anything more than the torture of these glancing touches, the slow-building heat between his thighs and the electric jolts of Hugh's mouth on his chest. He slid his hands firm down Hugh's back and rolled his hips, and this time, finally, made contact, pressing himself against the long muscle of Hugh's thigh and groaning aloud.

"You're going to get it on my trousers," Hugh complained half-heartedly, but he rolled down against Tom anyway, ground his hips into Tom's until Tom tossed his head and moaned, the scratchy drag of the wool sending heat skittering up his spine. It felt like a minor agony when Hugh, at length, pulled away, but Hugh shushed him, kissed his jaw and then his lips, tonguing an apology into Tom's mouth.

"We can do better than that," Hugh told him, taking Tom's hips in both big hands and pressing him flat to the bed. Tom whined, bucking a little, but then Hugh smacked him open-palmed across the thigh and the shock of it left him silent, right until Hugh ducked his head and took Tom in his mouth all at once.

"Oh, ff --" For some reason, he hadn't expected this, although now he wasn't sure why: of course Hugh was the type to want to give back exactly as much as he'd received, for the sake of fair play. He wasn't unpractised at this, either. On the contrary, it only took a moment before a steady rhythm had been established, and while only about half his length was in Hugh's mouth, the combination of firm suction and that hand working the rest of him was going to bring Tom off in no time at all.

"I -- can I --" He talked too much in bed, apparently. He could see the truth of that now, wanting to speak despite having nothing to say; he bit his lip instead and gripped fistfuls of Hugh's shirt at the shoulders, trying not to buck up too forcefully, letting Hugh guide the depth and rhythm of the motion. His toes clenched in the mattress; he could feel his thighs trembling. Hugh was tonguing at the head of him deftly, then sucking, then pulling back up to push his tongue into the slit again, then begin again: the pattern of it was firm and sure and Tom felt himself flushing at the thought of who else Hugh had done this for, who Tom might be following in -- God -- coming in his mouth.

He'd meant to stop himself, but the thought dragged him over the edge and he arched up, biting at the back of his own hand as he spilled, great messy pulses over Hugh's tongue. "Sorry," he panted as soon as he could breathe, hands fluttering helplessly to Hugh's hair and then back to his shoulders, "I didn't --"

"Calm down, honestly." Hugh's voice was rough as he pulled away, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand; he was laughing, shaking his head as he hauled himself back up the bed again to collapse against Tom's side. "This isn't my first rodeo, son -- as they say across the pond."

Tom laughed too, relieved, and then let himself fall back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling and trying to calm his breathing. He could feel himself smiling, and although he wasn't looking at Hugh, he knew he was still smiling, too. After a while, Hugh said, pulling himself half upright, "I could really do with a smoke now, but the idea of getting properly dressed again to go back out to the designated area-- " (sarcastically, in his Dr House voice) " -- doesn't exactly appeal. Do you suppose we could get away with puffing out of the window, or are they more sophis. than that, these days?"

"Oh God." Tom put his hand over his eyes and snorted. "Ordinarily I'd give it a try, but can you imagine if we set the thing off? And they came running up here, all the security blokes, and a load of firemen --"

" -- to find me looking like a dirty old man with my half-drunk whisky and you sprawled out on the bed like a naked ephebe; well, quite."

Tom tried very valiantly to stop laughing, but somehow only succeeded in making it worse. He was going to have a coughing fit if this went on. He forced himself to sit up and patted around on the bedside table for the little hotel-supplied bottle of water. "Fuck."

"Yes; it's either put our clothes on or suffer, I fear." Hugh threw him a look that, unexpectedly, made Tom flush hotly again. "Although I have to say it's a shame."

Tom wet his lips. He could feel that pounding at the back of his skull, again: the desire to say something cheeky warring with a sort of internalised polite horror at having even thought of such a thing. "We could always take them off again," he suggested lightly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and meeting Hugh's eyes, one corner of his mouth tugging upward.

Hugh, thank God, only shook his head and grinned. "I'm going to hold you to that, I hope you realise."

Tom laid a hand earnestly over his heart, eyebrows lifted. "An Englishman's word is his bond," he said, and smiled.


	2. Gentlemen Prefer Blond(e)s

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after.

For the first thirty seconds after he woke up apparently alone in the hotel room, Tom genuinely wasn't sure if what he felt was relief or disappointment. On the one hand, it was never pleasant to be abandoned after an ill-advised shag, like the wrapper off a chocolate bar of the sort adults pretended to have outgrown. On the other, though, there was no denying that trying to make morning small-talk in these situations could be awkward. Tom stretched out a long arm across the rumpled bed and reasoned that at least this way he didn't have to be witty and intelligent at nine a.m. while mildly hungover. He was well on the way to convincing himself that an empty room was the best kind when the bathroom door swung open and Hugh came out in his boxers, at which point Tom very gratefully abandoned the exercise.

Of fucking course he was glad Hugh hadn't run away in the night like the bloody Scarlet Pimpernel. No amount of awkwardness could be worse than that.

"Ah, you're up, are you?" Hugh sounded unfairly chipper. Tom took a moment to appreciate the broad shoulders and narrow waist, the lithe rower's build undiminished by middle age, and wondered why he hadn't tried harder to wrestle Hugh out of his clothes the night before. Today was a new day, and it was potentially impolite to stare. It seemed a waste.

"Almost," Tom said, rubbing at one eye with the heel of his hand and smiling tiredly.

"Fair enough." Hugh sat down on the edge of the bed on his own side; Tom could smell toothpaste on him, now, and the vaguely floral scent of hotel soap. "Look, old man, just so we're clear and before either of us starts worrying about it: are we pretending it away, or aren't we?"

"What?" Tom pulled himself up into something that more closely resembled a sitting position. The sheet slipped down to pool around his waist; he could feel himself blushing. "I, um." He cleared his throat. "I'm not sure --"

"Oh, come off it." Hugh rolled his eyes, not unkindly, and nudged Tom with an elbow. "Things were done, promises were made in the heat of the moment, and all that, but I won't hold them against you unless you want me to, is all I'm saying. We can go back to being pals and colleagues, no harm done; we've both had the practice at it."

Hugh spread his hands, and Tom felt the flush prickling further up over his cheekbones as his eyes went inexorably to the long fingers, the strong square palms: musician's hands. He was fairly sure he knew what Hugh was saying, and that it was, in its own way, an offer. Tom didn't feel sure of much, but one thing was clear enough: whatever was still on the table, Tom wanted it. He cleared his throat, brushed the backs of his fingers against the inside of Hugh's wrist. Ridiculously, after everything that had gone on the night before, Tom couldn't meet his eye. "What if I meant what I said?" Tom swallowed, and ventured an upward glance. "A promise is a promise, after all."

Hugh smiled slowly and, this time, Tom allowed himself to smile fully back. Hugh's wrist shifted under Tom's fingers, turning their arms until his fingers loosely braceleted Tom's forearm. He said, "In that case, I suppose I'd ask if what you fancied was a date in my diary, or a shockingly well-lit morning liaison after you've brushed your teeth."

Tom laughed aloud. Hugh had such a knack of making easy what anyone else might have made a terrible hash out of saying. Tom felt pleased enough about it to vault out of the bed naked before he could think better of it; the approving sound Hugh made as he bolted for the bathroom said he'd made the right choice.

"Toothbrushes under the sink," Hugh called, "and there are about forty seven bottles of different unguents sitting on the side, there; if you bring the lot, I'm sure one of them will be fit for purpose."

If anyone had told Tom, while a young actor first tremulously treading the boards at Cambridge, that he would one day be depositing a slew of miniature toiletries onto a hotel bed for Hugh Laurie to assess, he would undoubtedly have rejected the idea even before the further embellishments of his being naked and sporting a half-mast morning erection. And yet, here he was. Hugh had settled himself back against a carefully stacked mountain of pillows, but he crawled forward now with interest, combing through the little bottles with one eyebrow lifted.

"Now," Hugh said, "this is more complicated than it looks, isn't it? One might be tempted to go straight for hand lotion, but I do wonder whether conditioner would be a better bet." He looked up at Tom for input, and Tom laughed, throwing himself down on the bed and leaning in to look.

"This is actually 'conditioning shampoo'," he pointed out, "So…"

"Cheap _bastards_ ," Hugh said, sounding genuinely surprised and outraged. Tom pressed both hands to his face and laughed again, helplessly. 

"I'm sorry," he managed, through his fingers, "but this is very -- I mean, it's --"

"Don't finish that sentence," Hugh advised, setting the hand lotion on the nightstand and sloughing everything else onto the floor with a well-placed kick. "Come here and kiss me instead, there's a good lad."

A fair argument, Tom thought. Hugh held out an arm, and Tom tucked himself under it happily enough, shifting until they were pressed together fully, chest to chest and thigh to thigh. Tom lifted his face and Hugh made a soft sound, kissed him, and God, yes, Tom had been right: it was better like this, without clothes, Hugh's skin warm and smooth under Tom's palms. This kiss, too, was easier somehow, no longer a frenzied first attack, but a languid expedition back into newly familiar territory, their mouths working slow and exploratory against each other. Tom breathed out through his nose, let himself melt a little, and Hugh took the surrender for what it was, guiding Tom gently down onto his back. 

The new position lent everything a certain surety. Hugh murmured approval, tucking a thigh between Tom's, and Tom arched his back, jaw going slack. Hugh was kissing him intensely now, full throttle, his tongue fucking Tom's mouth almost possessively. It was certainly a promise. From anyone else, it might have turned Tom off, but Hugh was good at it, knew how far was far enough, and Tom felt his muscles go liquid, his gut twisting hotly. He groaned softly in his throat, lifting his hips. The muscle of Hugh's thigh flexed against him and Tom's hands slid down from his shoulders to his waist, his arse, where the damned bloody boxer shorts still kept the skin a secret. Frustrated, Tom turned his face, pressed his nose against Hugh's jaw and sucked in a breath.

"Get these off," he said.

Hugh laughed, low. "I should have got us under the covers first. An error of judgment." He sounded mildly embarrassed, and Tom realised suddenly that he was actually self-conscious -- that he didn't want Tom to see him naked; that he was worried about what Tom might think. It was patently ridiculous, and yet also somehow charming. For the first time since they'd met, Tom felt as if he might actually have the upper hand.

He damn well wasn't going to waste it.

"No covers," he said firmly. Hugh made a noncommittal sound and began mouthing at Tom's throat; Tom caught his breath and swallowed hard, made himself resist the ploy and stand his ground. "I want to see you while you fuck me."

"God, why?" Hugh's eyes were lowered, but he couldn't hide the way his voice had lowered too, his breath short. Tom decided to press his advantage. 

"It's only fair," Tom said, tugging at the waistband of Hugh's underwear and thrilling internally when Hugh let him do it. "I can hardly ride you with these in the way."

A strangled sound made its way out of Hugh's throat as he lifted his hips to let Tom yank the boxers down to his thighs. A moment later, his mouth was on Tom's again, the kiss a brief, fierce thing. "That's what's going to happen, is it?" Another kiss: Tom whimpered into it despite himself, gasping. "Who are you and what have you done with the boy I had last night, who did what he was told and nothing else?"

"He's still here," Tom said, breathless. The head of Hugh's cock bumped sticky against his stomach and Tom's thighs spread almost involuntarily, wanting it. "I just -- oh -- wanted you naked."

"Demanding, aren't we?" A big hand slid down Tom's flank, over his hip; gripped the meat of his thigh in a firm squeeze. "If you want your own way, you'll have to be a good boy, I'm afraid." Another squeeze. Tom could feel his own breath picking up in his throat, his heart beginning to pound at the new low note in Hugh's voice. "What is it you want, Tom?"

"Oh," Tom breathed, helpless. Hugh was rolling down against him now, their bodies working in an imitation of fucking, Hugh's cock bare and stiff against the flat of Tom's stomach. Muscle shifted easy in his shoulders as he moved, and Tom bit his lip, let the rush of want push self consciousness out of his mouth. "I want your cock."

"Oh?" Hugh's mouth at Tom's jaw, his throat, biting sparks into the skin. His hips still rolling smoothly, the friction so good and yet nowhere near enough. "How?" A hitch in his breath as Tom shivered beneath him. Then: "Tell me."

He would have to say it, then. Tom found that he wanted to, his chest full with anticipatory excitement. He drew up his thighs to bracket Hugh's narrow hips, pushing into Hugh's guiding hands. "Fuck me." His pulse seemed to be beating in his ears. He felt spread open like this, underneath Hugh's firm weight: soft, somehow, almost feminine. He bit his lip, liking it and not quite knowing why. "Please. Put it in me, I want it."

"Christ." The tightness in Hugh's voice was becoming familiar. The fierce kiss that followed the curse was even more so, a hot plundering of Tom's mouth, and Tom let himself moan into it, jaw going slack as Hugh tugged at his hair, tongued at his soft palate. They were frotting against each other in earnest now, and when Hugh pulled back, Tom almost protested until he saw the look on Hugh's face as he said, "Come on, then. Spread 'em."

"Fuck." Tom closed his eyes, cheeks flushing, but Hugh's hands were already on his thighs and it was easier to go with it than resist, not least because it was exactly what he wanted. His knees were almost to his chest when Hugh stopped pushing, and Tom could hear him breathing, still for a long, excruciating moment as he held Tom's legs wide and simply looked at him. After a minute, embarrassment made Tom move to close his thighs, but Hugh clicked his tongue, his grip tightening. 

"None of that, now." Something clicked wetly, and Tom realised with a shiver that it was the lid of the lotion bottle. "Stay."

It had been a while since Tom had done this, long enough that he'd been half afraid his body might have forgotten its lines, but the moment Hugh touched him with the first slick finger, he knew there was no chance of that. One slow circle around his rim, and Tom was panting, the muscles in his stomach and thighs tensing reflexively. By the time that finger was inside him to the knuckle and Hugh was tucking in the tip of a second, Tom was groaning low and constant, whole body lifting into Hugh's touch.

"Oh, you like this," Hugh said, "don't you?" Even with his eyes closed, Tom could read his expression in his voice: the brow drawn tight and the eyes dark, assessing. Tom murmured in his throat and arched his back wordlessly, and Hugh, apparently beyond and inclination to tease, rewarded him with a third finger.

"Fuck --" Tom clutched at the sheets. He was properly filled now, his body stretched and clutching around Hugh's hand. Hugh was fucking him steadily, smooth hard strokes with his palm downward, hard enough that the bed shook with it, and Tom could feel himself coming alight, nerves sparking. God, yes, he'd wanted this, wanted to be full and _taken_ this way, but Hugh was too far away and Tom could get fingerfucked on his own time. He groped for Hugh's arm, his wrist. "Please --"

"Yes?" Thank God, Hugh sounded moved, almost as strung out as Tom felt. "Are you sure?"

Tom half laughed, the question was so redundant. He arched his neck, rubbing his hot cheek against the cool pillow, a frustrated sound slipping from his lips. "Damn you _yes_ , I'm sure: get up here."

"All right, all right…" Hugh shushed him, shifting up the bed before he withdrew his fingers. Tom leaned up gratefully to kiss him, and Hugh took advantage of his distraction, seemingly, to perform some form of sleight of hand with a condom, because the next second he was nudged up against Tom's hole, blunt and hard, and Tom was gasping into his mouth.

"Sshhh…"

Tom had never been much for fucking eyes-open, but with Hugh braced over him, forehead against Tom's and eyes impossibly blue, Tom wondered why. There was something comforting about being able to hold Hugh's gaze as he was breached, knowing that any flicker of undue discomfort would be writ clear on his face. He felt looked after, and the thought left him warm, relaxed enough for Hugh to push inside in a single slow thrust.

"Ah --" Tom's back arched, hips lifting, and Hugh breathed out hard, turning his face to mouth at Tom's jaw, the side of his neck, setting up a rhythm. He was braced on his elbows, Tom realised, and the thought made him laugh before he could stop himself.

"Not really what a chap wants to hear," Hugh said into his neck, and Tom fought to get his breath under control. Hugh had one hand wrapped firm around Tom's thigh and Tom lifted his leg, obliging, until his calf was almost around Hugh's waist, heel at the small of his back. 

"Sorry," he panted, rocking up into the pressure, "it isn't you" (it wasn't: Tom was struggling to get his breath back for more reasons than one) "It's just --"

"What?" Hugh was laughing too now, by association. His hips still worked slowly, rhythmic little circles that dragged against Tom's prostate, and Tom moaned, low, digging his fingers into the muscle of Hugh's shoulders.

" _A gentleman always makes love on his elbows_ ," he managed tightly, and then yelped as Hugh bit his throat in retaliation, smothering an outraged laugh there.

"Something wrong with that, Hiddleston?" He was still moving; one strong thrust left Tom breathless for a moment, head falling back against the pillows.

" _Unh_ \-- not as such, just --" He tugged, and then Hugh was flat on top of him, all the firm weight of him, and Tom groaned at the sensation. "Sometimes you don't want a gentleman, you know."

"You should be outlawed." Hugh's voice had dropped half an octave. When Tom met his eyes, the heat there made him swallow hard. The next moment, Hugh's arms were under Tom's and gripping him firmly at the shoulder, a promise that set Tom shivering. "Very well, then." He nipped at Tom's ear, set his teeth there. "We'll just fuck."

"Oh God," Tom said faintly. Then Hugh's mouth was on his again, the kiss deep and dirty, and it was all Tom could do to hold on.

Hugh might have had twenty years on Tom, but he'd seemingly lost nothing in stamina. He'd quite clearly been holding back before, but now he was fucking Tom in earnest, at first plastered full length to Tom and then, when more leverage was indicated, hooking an arm under Tom's knee to spread him further, haul him further onto Hugh's cock. 

"Oh God," Tom repeated helplessly, beginning to wonder if he'd asked for more than he could handle. In the past, he'd been fucked more often on hands and knees or on his stomach; like this, with his legs spread wide and Hugh tucked in firm between them, he felt fuller than he remembered being, crammed deep at the crest of each thrust. It was good, intense, and then Hugh's hand found Tom's cock and Tom gave up on words.

"That's it, that's my boy, you _beauty_." Hugh was pounding into him now, hard relentless strokes that jolted little echoing cries out of Tom, _ah ah ah_. Hugh was breathless, but Tom was hoarse. He could feel the orgasm cresting in him, Hugh ploughing it out of him with every slam of his hips, every twist of his wrist; then Hugh made a weak sound and tugged Tom's hair and Tom was _gone_ , hips lifting, coming over his stomach in helpless wracked pulses.

After that, the gentleman was back, but Tom found he didn't mind. He appreciated, even, the way Hugh gathered him up in his arms as his own rhythm faltered, burying his face in Tom's neck as he ground into him helplessly, every muscle trembling finely. When he came, Tom felt it both inside and out, the pulsing of his cock following the sudden stilling of his body, and when they fell panting onto the mattress, Hugh's hand was still tangled weakly in Tom's hair.

Tom was the first to recover a long moment later, spine popping as he groaned and shifted on the pillows. Beside him, Hugh was still panting like a long distance runner, gazing sightlessly at the ceiling.

"Well," Tom ventured, "the lotion was all right, then."

Hugh threw him a lugubrious look, sidelong. "Was it, indeed? Don't need real lube, don't want a gentleman in bed." Hugh groaned, rearranging himself to tuck his hands beneath his head. "I'd never have pegged you for the rough and ready type, Hiddleston. Perhaps I'm not at all what the doctor ordered."

Tom laughed, the sound of it as hoarse as his voice was. His agent was going to kill him. Still. "I wouldn't say _that_ ," he said, voice pitched low. "On the contrary, in fact."

"Hmm." Hugh's knee shifted slightly, nudging Tom's. He smiled slowly. "Well. In that case, one of the more successful of my recent trips to Oxford, this one. Eh?"

"Absolutely," Tom said, smiling up at the ceiling. He was pleasantly sore, sweaty, and, for the moment, utterly content. "Absolutely."

**Author's Note:**

> I found this picture charming. If you have read this far, please look at it and cleanse your brain thereby. 
> 
> https://36.media.tumblr.com/8a9f50cdb0483628d0adc11fa47c98f1/tumblr_o2rmad8s4C1ui3097o1_540.png


End file.
